The following is a largely unedited rant, which may or may not make any damn sense.

I realize that I have been struggling to conform my observations with my desire for a just world. Sitting in the vaguely clinical office of my analyst, I recall saying that I did not want to live in a world where such things could happen.

This can be parsed two ways. The first is denial. The other is suicide.

I did not make this world. And I did not ask for it to be this way. And yet it is. Flawed. Troubled. Fucked.

I keep asking what comes next. One of my friends asked why I kept putting provebial bandaids on a deep wound.

I tend to think that I am less of a doctor than I am an artist. So what if my chosen medium is band-aid sculpture? I never claimed to be able to a surgeon. And when none are around, is it so bad to just get creative?

I am coming to see my own inadequacy as a neutral reality. There are the delusions of grandeur, when I see myself on the big screen…valiantly giving my last breath in the name of all things good. And there is the seduction of powerlessness, when at last, “at His feet, they lay their golden crowns.” Revelations, as sung by Johnny Cash has carried me in times of trouble with a vision of a world that I cannot possibly harm.

What would be so terrible if I did make a mistake? If the world is going to hell in a handbasket, why not fight? When you have the chance to truely will something better, why be content with mere speculation?

My growing apocalypticism has not left me resigned. The reality of a troubled world and a rapidly foreclosing future gives all the more reason to fail, and to fail beautifully. My hope is a brutal one, intolerant of optimism that exceeds determination, fatalism that outstrips the need to rest. But I insist that it must be one that believes in wonder and awe.

For what would it profit one to gain the whole world, and lose your own soul?

-sly civilian